Mother's Sugar
Dec. 28th, 2018 06:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nathair_nimheAnother fic I meant to write earlier on during this holiday season. Didn't edit it too much, will probably hate it when I re-read it.
Rating: Teen
Words: Around 1560
Pairing: Finwë/Fëanor
Content Warning: Underage, very slightly* fucked-up dynamics (*that depends I guess), a bit of crossdressing
Summary: After Fëanor is away from home for a couple of years, Finwë can no longer keep his feelings in check.
Ever since Ñolofinwë's birth, Fëanáro had done his best to meet his father as rarely as possible. He wasn't happy not to see him, but he felt better if he could pretend not to have a father at all, if he didn't have to worry, even if just for a few hours. The previous year he didn't even go back home for the New Year festivities. He had left the Halls of Aulë a few days before he was due to leave for Tirion, and then he had walked and walked until the Halls and Valmar were hidden behind hills, and Nerdanel couldn't insist that he ought to see his father and his new family once a year at the very least.
Of course, he couldn't do the same twice in a row. His father sent some of his attendants to make sure he would go to Tirion, and he was already packed when they arrived in Valmar.
The look Finwë gave him when they saw each other again for the first time in two years had been almost pitiful. It made him feel guilty, too. Guilty, and happy in a way that made him angry at himself.
And now, this.
His father was asking him to be his lover.
To love him not just as a son.
His father spoke with a soft, level tone as if he was afraid to scare him, but there was an edge of desperation in his voice that he didn't manage to hide and that wasn't exactly reassuring.
“I already love you more than anybody else, even if you refuse to believe it,” he was saying. “But if you allow this I will also be the happiest man to live: I could hope for nothing greater, nothing would compare.”
Fëanáro was taken by surprise more than afraid. Someone else, he thought, would have been confused, probably outraged. Then again, someone else would have probably not loved their father as much as he did, despite his grief. His father counted on that.
“These years without you have been torment for me. Please...please, at least, even if you don't return my feelings, don't ever be away from me for so long. I couldn't bear it.”
Fëanáro didn't reply. “There is a...girl I like,” he said instead.
Finwë's face went rigid for a moment. “You intend to marry her?”
Fëanáro didn't. He did like Nerdanel quite a lot, he enjoyed her company, the sharpness of her mind, and he had already shared her bed, but he didn't like marriage the way the Valar conceived of it. He couldn't, after what happened to his mother. It was more like a trap than like a heartfelt bond between two lovers. He shrugged one shoulder.
“Surely, even if you do, you will want to wait a few more years, right?” Finwë said. Once again he was looking at Fëanáro like he might fall apart at any moment – or rather, like he might lose control.
“Shouldn't you have waited a few more years before asking me what you just asked?”
“I couldn't.” Finwë shook his head. “Believe me, Fëanya, it wasn't easy. But I had to ask. I had to. Not telling you would have driven me mad.”
“Is it because I wasn't enough of a son for you?”
Pain wrinkled Finwë's forehead, and he only said: “no.”
“Do you think Mother would be happy?”
“Of course not.”
“Why is your happiness always more important than the happiness of the people you are supposed to love?”
Finwë clenched his fists. At least, he had the decency not to deny that that what was his divorce from Míriel had been about. “I know it's wrong. But my love is true.”
“Yet you were all too eager to lock Mother in Mandos. And now you want to fuck her son who isn't even an adult yet.”
Finwë closed the distance between them, and fell to his knees before him. He wrapped his arms around Fëanáro's waist and murmured. “I love you more than anything else. I've made mistakes, yes, but this won't be a mistake.”
Fëanáro looked up from his father's black hair to the window and desk and his father's royal seals and the bust of Míriel sitting among the mess, in a corner.
After a time, he pushed his father back.
“I will have to think about this,” he said and before Finwë could say a word he bolted out of the room.
A couple of hours later he entered his Mother's rooms – which were his and his alone, as were all her possessions – and opened one of her chests.
*
Fëanáro swept in his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him. His footfalls were, by contrast, bewitchingly silent.
Finwë nearly dropped the mostly empty glass of wine he had been idly turning and turning between his fingers while he waited and debated with himself whether he should not go to Fëanáro's rooms and plead with him again.
Fëanáro had donned one of his mother's dresses. It was too tight for him, and the thin fabric was stretched to its limits around his chest and around his hips. He wasn't that much taller than Míriel, though, so his bare feet barely peeked from under the hem of the dress. The veil was an unbelievably thin thing Míriel had been so proud of weaving. It had blended with her silver hair, given her an almost otherworldly appearance, and now cast a silvery shadow over the raven black of her son's hair. The face it framed was different. Finwë thought the effect would have been more compelling if Fëanáro had been younger and his mother's features has still been highlighted by the boyish softness of his face. Of course, if Fëanáro had been any younger all of this would have been so much more wrong.
Fëanáro went straight to the chest of drawers on the far side of the room, took the large, heavy glass sculpture Indis had gifted him when he married her, and – holding his gaze – let it drop.
The precious specimen of Vanyarin glassware fell to the ground and shattered beyond repair. Fëanáro went on to destroy the 35 other presents Indis had made him on the anniversary of their marriage.
Finwë watched, his cock becoming harder and harder every time he heard the sharp crash of glass against marble, and not even the fact that he would have to explain the wreckage took away from his arousal. Indis was sure to blame Fëanáro entirely, she would probably insist to him that he ought to have been firmer with his son, who was evidently just as marred as the Valar said.
Except that the one Finwë couldn't be firm with was himself, and if Fëanáro was marred he had to be three times as marred to say the least.
Besides, if Míriel had come back now, worn the dress Fëanáro was wearing and the exact same frown, she too would have taken her anger out on the keepsakes of his second marriage like her son did.
Fëanáro swept the last presents to ground with his arm, then turned. Skirting the glass shards he reached the bed and sat on it, mere inches from Finwë.
Father and son stared awkwardly at each other for a few moments.
Then Fëanáro stood on his knees and took his father's face in his calloused hands. The forgotten glass spilled the last of the wine on the bedspread.
“So...will you marry me again, Finwë?”
Finwë nodded before Fëanáro even finished, before he had time to dwell on that 'again'.
“A bond that no statute of the Valar can break, no law of Arda or of Eru or of anyone else, nor death itself.”
“I swear! I swear I will always be yours, no matter what.”
Fëanáro searched his eyes.
Finwë held his breath, refusing to blink.
When Fëanáro smiled a guileless smile tinged with melancholy, he nearly apologised but bit his tongue before the words were out of his mouth. He didn't have the right to apologise to his son who was accepting to be his lover. He had to always be mindful of what he was taking from him.
Closing his eyes, he leant forward and brushed his lips over his Fëanáro's lips.
A tiny gasp elicited a smile and made him even harder.
Fëanáro's nipples showed through the dress, tenting the stretched silk. Fëanáro probably wasn't wearing much else.
Finwë pushed him back on the bed. Fëanáro, flushed and expectant, promptly raised his legs and folded them, letting the dress ride up to his thighs and show his bare ass.
Finwë took the sight of him in, and nearly lost himself in it until Fëanáro spoke again.
“I missed you so much, Daddy. I will be anything you want me to be, but don't ever leave me.”
“Sssh, Fëanya. You are everything to me. I won't ever leave you. Never.”
Finwë scooted between Fëanáro's legs, between thighs that were much more muscled than the last time he had seen them, and propped himself up on his elbows, so that he blanketed his son. He ground his cock down tentatively against Feanaro's equally hard one and the jolt of sensation was almost too much.
“I'm all yours, Fëanya, forever.”
***
I wrote one sentence of this years ago, based on an idea I had back then - Finwë seducing slightly underage Fëanor, but focusing more on the smut and with a less bitter Fëanor. Listening to Kate Bush's Babooshka spawned this new version.
Rating: Teen
Words: Around 1560
Pairing: Finwë/Fëanor
Content Warning: Underage, very slightly* fucked-up dynamics (*that depends I guess), a bit of crossdressing
Summary: After Fëanor is away from home for a couple of years, Finwë can no longer keep his feelings in check.
Ever since Ñolofinwë's birth, Fëanáro had done his best to meet his father as rarely as possible. He wasn't happy not to see him, but he felt better if he could pretend not to have a father at all, if he didn't have to worry, even if just for a few hours. The previous year he didn't even go back home for the New Year festivities. He had left the Halls of Aulë a few days before he was due to leave for Tirion, and then he had walked and walked until the Halls and Valmar were hidden behind hills, and Nerdanel couldn't insist that he ought to see his father and his new family once a year at the very least.
Of course, he couldn't do the same twice in a row. His father sent some of his attendants to make sure he would go to Tirion, and he was already packed when they arrived in Valmar.
The look Finwë gave him when they saw each other again for the first time in two years had been almost pitiful. It made him feel guilty, too. Guilty, and happy in a way that made him angry at himself.
And now, this.
His father was asking him to be his lover.
To love him not just as a son.
His father spoke with a soft, level tone as if he was afraid to scare him, but there was an edge of desperation in his voice that he didn't manage to hide and that wasn't exactly reassuring.
“I already love you more than anybody else, even if you refuse to believe it,” he was saying. “But if you allow this I will also be the happiest man to live: I could hope for nothing greater, nothing would compare.”
Fëanáro was taken by surprise more than afraid. Someone else, he thought, would have been confused, probably outraged. Then again, someone else would have probably not loved their father as much as he did, despite his grief. His father counted on that.
“These years without you have been torment for me. Please...please, at least, even if you don't return my feelings, don't ever be away from me for so long. I couldn't bear it.”
Fëanáro didn't reply. “There is a...girl I like,” he said instead.
Finwë's face went rigid for a moment. “You intend to marry her?”
Fëanáro didn't. He did like Nerdanel quite a lot, he enjoyed her company, the sharpness of her mind, and he had already shared her bed, but he didn't like marriage the way the Valar conceived of it. He couldn't, after what happened to his mother. It was more like a trap than like a heartfelt bond between two lovers. He shrugged one shoulder.
“Surely, even if you do, you will want to wait a few more years, right?” Finwë said. Once again he was looking at Fëanáro like he might fall apart at any moment – or rather, like he might lose control.
“Shouldn't you have waited a few more years before asking me what you just asked?”
“I couldn't.” Finwë shook his head. “Believe me, Fëanya, it wasn't easy. But I had to ask. I had to. Not telling you would have driven me mad.”
“Is it because I wasn't enough of a son for you?”
Pain wrinkled Finwë's forehead, and he only said: “no.”
“Do you think Mother would be happy?”
“Of course not.”
“Why is your happiness always more important than the happiness of the people you are supposed to love?”
Finwë clenched his fists. At least, he had the decency not to deny that that what was his divorce from Míriel had been about. “I know it's wrong. But my love is true.”
“Yet you were all too eager to lock Mother in Mandos. And now you want to fuck her son who isn't even an adult yet.”
Finwë closed the distance between them, and fell to his knees before him. He wrapped his arms around Fëanáro's waist and murmured. “I love you more than anything else. I've made mistakes, yes, but this won't be a mistake.”
Fëanáro looked up from his father's black hair to the window and desk and his father's royal seals and the bust of Míriel sitting among the mess, in a corner.
After a time, he pushed his father back.
“I will have to think about this,” he said and before Finwë could say a word he bolted out of the room.
A couple of hours later he entered his Mother's rooms – which were his and his alone, as were all her possessions – and opened one of her chests.
*
Fëanáro swept in his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him. His footfalls were, by contrast, bewitchingly silent.
Finwë nearly dropped the mostly empty glass of wine he had been idly turning and turning between his fingers while he waited and debated with himself whether he should not go to Fëanáro's rooms and plead with him again.
Fëanáro had donned one of his mother's dresses. It was too tight for him, and the thin fabric was stretched to its limits around his chest and around his hips. He wasn't that much taller than Míriel, though, so his bare feet barely peeked from under the hem of the dress. The veil was an unbelievably thin thing Míriel had been so proud of weaving. It had blended with her silver hair, given her an almost otherworldly appearance, and now cast a silvery shadow over the raven black of her son's hair. The face it framed was different. Finwë thought the effect would have been more compelling if Fëanáro had been younger and his mother's features has still been highlighted by the boyish softness of his face. Of course, if Fëanáro had been any younger all of this would have been so much more wrong.
Fëanáro went straight to the chest of drawers on the far side of the room, took the large, heavy glass sculpture Indis had gifted him when he married her, and – holding his gaze – let it drop.
The precious specimen of Vanyarin glassware fell to the ground and shattered beyond repair. Fëanáro went on to destroy the 35 other presents Indis had made him on the anniversary of their marriage.
Finwë watched, his cock becoming harder and harder every time he heard the sharp crash of glass against marble, and not even the fact that he would have to explain the wreckage took away from his arousal. Indis was sure to blame Fëanáro entirely, she would probably insist to him that he ought to have been firmer with his son, who was evidently just as marred as the Valar said.
Except that the one Finwë couldn't be firm with was himself, and if Fëanáro was marred he had to be three times as marred to say the least.
Besides, if Míriel had come back now, worn the dress Fëanáro was wearing and the exact same frown, she too would have taken her anger out on the keepsakes of his second marriage like her son did.
Fëanáro swept the last presents to ground with his arm, then turned. Skirting the glass shards he reached the bed and sat on it, mere inches from Finwë.
Father and son stared awkwardly at each other for a few moments.
Then Fëanáro stood on his knees and took his father's face in his calloused hands. The forgotten glass spilled the last of the wine on the bedspread.
“So...will you marry me again, Finwë?”
Finwë nodded before Fëanáro even finished, before he had time to dwell on that 'again'.
“A bond that no statute of the Valar can break, no law of Arda or of Eru or of anyone else, nor death itself.”
“I swear! I swear I will always be yours, no matter what.”
Fëanáro searched his eyes.
Finwë held his breath, refusing to blink.
When Fëanáro smiled a guileless smile tinged with melancholy, he nearly apologised but bit his tongue before the words were out of his mouth. He didn't have the right to apologise to his son who was accepting to be his lover. He had to always be mindful of what he was taking from him.
Closing his eyes, he leant forward and brushed his lips over his Fëanáro's lips.
A tiny gasp elicited a smile and made him even harder.
Fëanáro's nipples showed through the dress, tenting the stretched silk. Fëanáro probably wasn't wearing much else.
Finwë pushed him back on the bed. Fëanáro, flushed and expectant, promptly raised his legs and folded them, letting the dress ride up to his thighs and show his bare ass.
Finwë took the sight of him in, and nearly lost himself in it until Fëanáro spoke again.
“I missed you so much, Daddy. I will be anything you want me to be, but don't ever leave me.”
“Sssh, Fëanya. You are everything to me. I won't ever leave you. Never.”
Finwë scooted between Fëanáro's legs, between thighs that were much more muscled than the last time he had seen them, and propped himself up on his elbows, so that he blanketed his son. He ground his cock down tentatively against Feanaro's equally hard one and the jolt of sensation was almost too much.
“I'm all yours, Fëanya, forever.”
***
I wrote one sentence of this years ago, based on an idea I had back then - Finwë seducing slightly underage Fëanor, but focusing more on the smut and with a less bitter Fëanor. Listening to Kate Bush's Babooshka spawned this new version.
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